


Sherlock's First.

by Lizzie1498



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Drowning, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Kiss of Life, M/M, Sherlock gets beat up, Stabbing, Violence, kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzie1498/pseuds/Lizzie1498
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little short fiction about Sherlock badly injured and John having to perform mouth-to mouth. Sherlock considers it his first kiss. John does his best to save Sherlock. Very fluffy. Cuteness ensues. Angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He had spotted the murderer.

A serial Killer to make it more accurate. Victims: 22. Sherlock was 23.

Sherlock bolted after the man. John had been long left behind. Lost in the night lights of London.

He had been chasing him for almost twenty minutes now and his lungs burned as he gasped for frigid air, his legs stretched with fire as he continued to sprint.  
He loved it.  
Every muscle of his body told him to stop. To give up. To at least slow down.  
He didn’t. After losing sight of the Killer for a moment which seemed like an eternity he finally found him and gave in one last kick. Like a race horse he sped up. Closing the distance between them in an inhuman amount of time.

Sirens were whirring in the distance, closing in fast. Five minutes away. At most.

The Killer was running towards the pier. How was this guy so damn fast?!

Sherlock followed and blocked the only escape. The Bastard was surrounded by Water and a pissed off Socio-path.

“I suggest you surrender.” Sherlock managed to choke out between gasps, but he was pleased to see the Killer breathing heavily too, perhaps more than himself.

“Not likely, Mate.” In a flash of Silver, a knife was pointed at Sherlock’s neck.

“How Dull.” Sherlock rolled his eyes with a loud sigh. How typical. Rushing forward, The Killer made to swipe the dagger across Sherlock’s midsection. With practiced precision, Sherlock ducked out of the way and tackled the much larger thug to the wooden planks with enough force to shake the pier.

They scrambled at each other desperately; Sherlock’s main focus the knife, the Killer’s the sirens. Sherlock grateful for the practice he had growing up with his sometimes brute of a Brother, layered blow after blow on the muscular rock beneath him. He aimed mostly for the face and throat, the most vulnerable points he could reach at the moment as he still clutched the wrist clenched around the knife aiming for his heart.

The sirens were getting closer, three minutes now.  
Sherlock continued to berate the young man beneath him, hoping to finally knock him unconscious. And all of a sudden it seemed he had succeeded. One last blow for good measure.

He did it. Sherlock won.

That was until the Killer shot up and head-butted Sherlock so hard his ears rang. He flopped on to his back, dangerously close to the edge of the pier. Without missing a beat, the Killer surged forward and grabbed Sher-lock raining blows on his thin form until he heard bones break. He wouldn’t stop.

Sherlock fought viciously, keeping the hand with the knife at bay with both of his, forcing himself to accept the blows. Over and Over again. His face, his throat, his stomach, his chest. A particularly hard hit to the ribs dou-bled his body over itself as he heard a sickening crack. The Killer stood up and kicked Sherlock down onto the planks, slamming his boot against his face, thrusting it into his groin and driving it into his ribs and back. The berating continued for what seemed like hours, the huge foot planting itself wherever it pleased. With an air of finality, The Killer lifted his momentous leg and crushed the thin thigh beneath him with many audible cracks, like wrapping paper. The pain was engulfing. Burning on the surface and plunging into twisted agony the deeper into his bones the blows fell. Breathing was becoming a chore. But then again:

Breathing is Boring.

The three minute beating felt like hours and Sherlock felt like giving up. His throbbing leg badly broken, He hadn’t caught his breath and now with his lungs whining against shattered bone began to cause him severe dis-tress. And just when he was about to succumb he heard the voice of an angel.

John. A minute early.

“Sherlock!!!” His voice sounded so worried and Sherlock wanted desperately to call back but couldn’t even form words with his lips.

Suddenly he was bathed in bright lights and the sound of many police officers rushing to him.

The Killer rose to his full height, a towering seven feet five inches, bringing Sherlock with him. He gripped him by the alabaster throat and held him high over his head, squeezing sickeningly tight as Sherlock’s good leg flailed wildly, desperately to escape.

“One step closer and he’s dead!” The Killer shouted and held out the knife for all to see.

They Froze. Rooted. Lestrade’s voice rang out.

“Drop your weapon! Drop it now!” All guns pointed up and aimed for the Killer.

John was ahead of the entire group, still as a statue. He noticed Sherlock’s limp leg and tried to determine the damage from his distance.

The Knife still in hand of a madman.

Lestrade’s voice screamed so loud Sherlock could hear him clear as day even in his half-conscious haze.

“LET HIM GO NOW!!!”  
The Killer feigned confusion.

“First you want me to drop the knife. Now you want me to drop him? Confusing lot you are.” He smiled grossly and tightened his grip on both hands.

Sherlock gasped desperately, loudly. The noise was terrifying like a dying jaguar. John shined his torch to his slowly stilling friend, his lips were blue and quaking as his eyes began to roll.

“Drop everything in your hands now!!” John shouted in frustration, Sherlock wouldn’t last much longer and judg-ing by the amount of blood smeared across his face he has been fighting pretty hard. Or taking a pretty hard beating. His energy was depleting with his oxygen.

“Oh, I will,” He sneered. Sherlock fell limp. “Just let me dispose of my evidence.”

Many things happened at once.

As Lestrade screamed a final warning, the knife arched in a flash of silver in the night before plunging into Sher-lock who howled despite the lack of breath in his strangled lungs. John shot forward , enraged, to bring down the Killer with a quick bullet to the brain just as the Killer flung Sherlock, knife still inside him, over ten feet out into the Thames where he sunk like a boulder.

The rest of the team rushed forward in panic, guns at the ready as the Killer surrendered to Lestrade who beat him to the floor.

John ran for the pier, gun forgotten on the planks, he kicked off his shoes as he sprinted before diving head first into the freezing black water.

Instantly all sound was drowned out, all sight, all sensations. The water enveloped him in a painful, numb, throb-bing vortex, dragging him under as it promised the kiss of relief if he were to just let go.

His eyes shot wide in the liquid dark as he clawed his way through the mind-numbing water searching frantically for Sherlock. He swam further and then deeper for many long moments before his lungs began to burn for Oxygen's sweet relief. He surged up, knowing he was leaving his best friend somewhere in the bottom of the Thames and he immediately was torn in two at the overwhelming pain of selfishness. He burst through the sur-face with a scream on his lips, "I can't find him!!!"

"KEEP LOOKING THEN." Lestrade yelled across the water as he was still attempting to restrain the Killer. Only then did John realize how far he had swam. John was at last 15 feet from the pier. He had probably passed Sherlock.

John cursed and quickly paddled his way through the icy water that was becoming more and more difficult to fight. He drew in a breath before diving back under and forcing himself deeper and deeper until his ears popped and his lungs begged for breath but he would not leave again. If John left for air he would never find Sherlock again.

So he fought through the water, opened his eyes uselessly in the murk and cried endlessly, adding warm tears to the frozen silence surrounding him.

And as his heart grew cold with the realization that Sherlock was gone forever, lost in the cold, scared and alone, John began to swim up for his lungs were threatening to burst.   
He opened his eyes to look up at the moon reflecting over the water, the blue light glistening and flashing across the surface of the black water and he thought to himself, at least Sherlock would have a beautiful last sight. It didn’t make the hurt any less. With his last shred of hope gone and the tears of losing his only friend flowing faster than ever he swam even quicker to the surface, the idea of being in the same water as his dead friend sending shivers down his spine.

Only six more feet or so and then-

His fingers brushed wool.

He reached down in shock and snatched up the woolen collar, finding his way to wrap his arms around the limp figure and surge upwards. His tears turning to joy.

They broke the surface together, Only one took a breath.

 

A/N: Should I continue? ~Lizzie


	2. Wake up, Arsehole!

John swam awkwardly, doing his best to keep both their heads above the water and compensate for the extra dead weight. Sherlock may be underweight, but with that damned coat he seemed to be three times his stone. But John wasn’t about to stop, he had carried men on his back and out of enemy lines in the blistering heat. He could carry a single sociopath. But it wasn’t the weight of his friend that was slowing him down, but the idea of time running out. Every second he thought of Sherlock dying, of not making it to the pier in time an extra ten stone was added on his shoulders until he felt he was sinking. The water seeming to rush into his nose, his ears, his eyes, until all he could do was feel. The coat, the freezing water, the weight of a life itself. And just as John was about to be smothered in the fake sensations and dragged under he had reached the pier.

Lestrade snatched Sherlock by the coat and dragged him up onto the pier while Anderson pried John out of the claws of the Thames.

The Knife was gone.

Not concerned with himself in the slightest, John rushed forward on his hands and knees to his flatmate. Unconscious, not breathing, bleeding profusely. With Lestrade’s aid, they stripped off the woolen coat and ripped open the purple shirt revealing a six inch long wound starting a few centimeters above his navel and ripping all the way up to his sternum,

“Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit….” John mumbled to himself breathlessly as he tore off his own jumper and pressed it to the wound, hard. Lestrade, knowing John’s plan of action immediately took John’s place and applied heavy pressure. Allowing John to begin compressions.

“Call the ambulance! Now!” John screamed through chattering teeth. 27, 28, 29, 30.

Tilting Sherlock’s head back to open his airway, John swiped the inside of Sherlock’s mouth for blood before placing his mouth over the blue lips and giving two large breaths. Nothing. No rise or fall of the bloody chest. He readjusted his position and gave two more breaths. Nothing again. Compressions.

John continued the compressions and then administered two more large breaths. Nothing.  
As he was beginning his third round, John felt warmth surrounding his knees; looking down on the dark piers he saw the unmistakable shine of blood. He looked to Lestrade’s hands, still pressing down tightly, his arm muscles straining under the amount of force he was applying. Was the blood his own?

No..Then that must-Oh, Shit.

“Lestrade! Keep pressing down but help me put him on his side!” John stopped his compressions, because if what he thought was true then those compressions and breaths  
had been useless.

As Lestrade and he wrestled the sociopath onto his side John’s horror was confirmed.  
The knife had plunged so deep it had ripped a hole literally straight through Sherlock.  
Thousands of thoughts swirled through his mind, spinal damage, permanent nerve damage, paralysis, internal bleeding, punctured lung, death…  
He snapped out of his morbid day dreaming and quickly tore off his shirt-leaving him shivering in a wet vest-and pressed it hard to the gap in Sherlock’s back, not nearly as long as the one on his front, but still, life threatening.

Lestrade gaped at the whole carved straight through the limp man below him until John shoved him back to his task at hand which was at the moment holding Sherlock’s intestines inside him. Scooting closer, John successfully pinned Sherlock sideways in between both of them, praying the ambulance would arrive soon.

Suddenly without any warning Sherlock choked his way to life, spluttering and vomiting water and blood all over both their laps, neither cared, just grinned at him and praised him.

“You’re doing great Sherlock! Stay awake! Breathe deeply, you’re safe now.” John continued his mantra and leaned over the limp body to look Sherlock in his glassy eyes.

He wasn’t shivering, that was a bit not good. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but only managed intelligible grunts.  
“Sherlock, for once, I really need you to shut up.” John commanded and applied heavier pressure now that his shirt was dripping.

Sherlock screamed.

He screamed and thrashed with surprising strength as involuntary tears flowed down his face, warming his cheeks. Donovan ran over quickly and held down his injured leg much to his dislike as he screamed in agony and fought to escape all the hands hurting him.  
John stoked his head gently to soothe his suffering friend before applying back to the wound.  
“Shh, Easy Sher. The ambulance is on its way.” John whispered and ran another hand down the taut spine.

They all sat in silence until Sherlock choked two words, “I-i’m C-co-ld.”

“I know Sher. Just relax, they are almost here.” For Sherlock to admit he was feeling anything was a huge admission that he was in pain. 

“I-it Hu-hurts, J-john.” Sherlock gasped as a sudden wave of pain rolled over him, it matured into a growl and ended in a low whine followed by racking sobs.

They all looked at each other. Sherlock was human after all. John and Lestrade knew this all along, but the others needed proof. They finally received it.

“It’s going to be alright Sherlock. You’ll pull through, stay strong okay?” John felt tears running down his own face as he watched the life draining and dripping from his best friend.

“Sherlock?” John called when he received no answer.  
Panic gripped his heart.

“Sherlock!? Answer me!” No answer. John let one hand rome to his friend’s neck. No pulse.

“Oh, shit no you don’t. Shit. You stay awake you bastard! You better stay awake! I did not freeze my arse off for you to just die!” John tapped the cold cheek, harder and harder until he was practically slapping him. The others watched sadly in silence as John cried his eyes out and begged his friend to live through his tears.

The sirens sounded.


	3. Hold my Hand.

I’m back, loves! Missed me? Of course not! You all have lives and fun places to go and-  
(If you’re anything like me you spend your days in your room with computer and food.) Well, that’s how I spent my spring break and it was refreshing! Now, enough about me and back to what you came here for. Does Sherlock live? (And IF he DOES….would you guys mind if this migrated into a pre-slash? It’s up to you. If you happen to leave a review please tell me if you want the ship to sail or sink and I will use that to finalize my judgement. I promise if it does sail it will be kept incredibly mild. No sex.) Enjoy!  
~Lizzie

The sirens seemed miles away, even as the ambulance rounded the corner and the paramedics leapt out with supplies in their arms and a stretcher in tow.

Sherlock stared unseeingly into the sky, not breathing, heart still as stone. His blue lips open in a small “o” allowing blood to trickle through his crimson stained teeth and down his chin. His intestines were literally in both their hands: warm, wet and crawling out of his body even as he lay there, dead.

John’s surroundings fell into a whirlwind of voices and hands, pushing, dragging and tearing him away. He was too weak to fight it and as he was dragged away he could still feel Sherlock’s cold skin against his hands. Lestrade stayed by him, murmuring comforts and wrapping a blanket around his shaking shoulders. But he wasn’t cold. He could not feel at the moment, nothing except for the rapid flutter of his heart and his labored breaths as he watched through glazed orbs the scene in front of him. The crowd of paramedics stripping away clothing, injecting and attaching, pressing and pulling, wrapping and setting and finally slamming down two cold paddles on the naked chest and electrocuting Sherlock’s still body.

The paddles charged a second time before slamming down with a bruising force and lifted Sherlock’s body into a huge arch for several long moments until he fell flaccid.

Murmuring was heard among the men and women in white before grudgingly lifting the paddles a third time.

No response.

A young blonde looked at her watch and spoke quietly, “Time of death, 11:48 P.M.-“

“NO!!!” John screeched and scrambled forward only to be intercepted by Lestrade flanked by five other officers who used all their strength to keep John back.

“John! He’s gone, mate! Stop it! He’s gone, John! He’s gone-“ Lestrade held John gently as he wept for his fallen soldier.

“Just-try again! Please-just one more time!” John reached for his best friend, willing him to awaken.

The blonde looked to her comrades before silently agreeing to try again. 

The buzzing was incredibly loud in their ears.

“Clear!”

The bloody body arched harshly before crashing down to earth. One second, two, three, four, fiv-

With a stuttering gasp, Sherlock screamed his way back to life, scaring the wits out of everyone on the pier. His eyes darting from face to unfamiliar face, panicking at the sudden swarm of people before glazing over as the pain suddenly roared over him. More blood spurted past his lips as he tried to suck in another breath, fighting his broken ribs and collapsed lung. Tears flowed freely now, clumping his dark eyelashes together and dribbling down his face as a mask was fastened and he was lifted painfully onto the waiting stretcher.

John was never happier.

Pulling himself away from Lestrade and the others with wobbly knees John bolted after the fast moving stretcher and quickly onto the ambulance, ignoring the looks and saying unthinkingly.

“He’s my Boyfriend.” 

It rolled off his tongue effortlessly, instinctually. If he were to say, “He’s my friend.” They would have pushed him off and told him to find a ride. But that simple three letter prefix sat him next to his best friend whom he cared about more than anything. And now they were heading to the hospital where he would be saved. He honestly didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought of him anymore. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Can you hear me?” His voice broke pathetically as he gently took Sherlock’s bruised hand in his own. The blackened eyes flitted up to meet his as a small smile of recognition graced his bowed lips.

“You got a few scratches.” John huffed gently, an attempt to lighten the doomed mood as paramedics bustled about, prepping him for surgery upon arrival.

Sherlock almost laughed, an extra puff of air from his broken nose would have to do, because with the agony he was in he knew it wasn’t a mere scratch. The morphine was helping. A lot.

But it didn’t stop the sickening surreal emptiness he felt in his torso. His insides were venturing out, and hands were reaching where they should never be able to go. If he wasn’t the victim, this would be a very intriguing sight to see. 

John’s warm hand cradling his own like a baby bird was a soft reassurance and comfort among the unfamiliarity of the sensations and surroundings. He was never good in public situations, unless it was for a case, the façade of his Consulting Detective persona was a way of cutting himself off emotionally from those around him. Then he could avoid interaction and escape, be consumed by the work he loved. But to just lie there, helpless and completely at the mercy of strangers he felt a panic creep over him, breathing up his spine and swirling around his rapidly beating heart. But John’s pulse against his was like a balm to his mind, calming him and ensuring him that he would be safe under his protection.

Sensing Sherlock’s anxiety John stroked his thumb over callused knuckles and whispered gently.

“You’ll be fine, Sherl. Just relax and it will be over soon. And you’ll be back to your annoying dick self in no time.” Sherlock smirked at John’s words and let his eyes flutter close as the medicine took it’s hold. He held John’s hand tightly.

~A/N: Short chapter. Sorry. Will write more this weekend. Hope you like. Like I said before, do you want Johnlock for this story? Comment sink or sail! :3 Till next time.

Lizzie


	4. I'll be here when you wake.

Hello Babies! Aww, I love my babies. Your response has been massive and I really appreciate that. Your comments make my day. Okay, so I asked you whether you want this ship to sail or sink. Almost all of you said sail. So I guess it will. I am sorry to the readers who don’t ship it and who have threatened not to read anymore.(Majority rules. Plus I ship it too.) I will be keeping the loving mild and in character so there you go. So please leave a review with anything you want to see in this story and your idea may be featured! Thank you Babies. :3  
~Lizzie. 

As soon as they arrived at the hospital Sherlock was rushed down the corridors into surgery and John was pushed into the lobby. Covered in blood and still soaking wet he was given an unflattering pair of scrubs and directions to the nearest bathroom where he changed and washed his face. Looking into the mirror he saw an unearthly gaze meet his. His eyes were wide and red from sobbing, he sighed before continuing to scrub away at his face, the tears the cold and hopefully the memories of the past hour. As he let his hands rub down his cheeks one more time he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand only to pull it away and see it coated in blood.

Damn.

As a boy he was prone to nosebleeds, and they usually happened when he was under stress. It hadn’t happened in about twenty years. Even in Afghanistan, surrounded by carrion men with their entrails crawling and their blood swimming out of them, he had remained stoic. But now the blood was dripping from his nostrils at an annoyingly fast pace. Snatching tissues from the dispenser he quickly stuffed it to his nostrils and tilted his head back. What a sight he must be. Baby blue scrubs, hair in a disarray with a bloody nose and bloodshot eyes. Some strong captain he was. Disgraceful. Pitiful, that’s what he was.

Pull yourself together! He’ll pull through. He’s stubborn that way. He’ll have the last word with God. Arrogant sod will make it, He will. He must.

Oh, Sherlock please live. Please.

John leaned against the counter to wait out the nosebleed and cleaned himself up once it ceased. He still looked like a wreck.

Straightening his back and marching out he unceremoniously sat in an empty chair with his bag of wet clothes nearby. Minutes turned into hours, he stood, paced, sat back down only to repeat the motions a few minutes later. He spent a long time preparing some coffee, an even longer time drinking it until it became cold and he dumped the rest.

He slumped back into his chair and waited, listening to other people buzz around, healthy and doing their job. Blissfully unaware there was a dying man on a metal table behind closed doors.

John must have begun dozing off because he was woken with a start to a familiar set of piercing eyes and regal features. Mycroft sat down next to him and crossed his legs primly.

“Evening, John. You seem troubled.” Mycroft spun his umbrella absently before glancing boredly at John who gaped.

“Troubled? Oh, I would have no idea why. Maybe it’s because I fished your gutted brother out of a goddamned lake!” John glared his Captain’s glare and clenched his jaw in annoyance. Do not punch the British Government.

“I do appreciate your quick reactions; your experience saved his life. But I have my best men and women caring for him, he will be fine.” Sighing gently Mycroft allowed himself to lean tiredly back into the hard chair.

“In case you don’t know, there is a hole ripped through him. Clean through. I was holding his intestines in my hands, Mycroft. I was holding him together. Now do not tell me he will be fine. Cause he won’t be. Even if he survives he will have months of recovery and pain and fear. It won’t be alright.” John’s fist clenched convulsively before he turned away from the infuriatingly smug look on Mycroft’s face. A perfect target.

“Actually, I did know. I sent my people on the ambulance to aid you.”

John cast a suspicious look, “Lestrade’s men called the hospital.”

“I called first.” Mycroft finished with a fake smile. “You may not realize this Dr. Watson, but I care for my Brother deeply. I would not be this calm if I had any doubt he was still in danger. Give them time.” With that Mycroft stood and straightened his waist coat.

“Now, if you will kindly excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Please give Sherlock my love when he wakes up.” And with that he was strutting out the double doors twirling that absurd umbrella.

Leave it to Mycroft to think he can play God. 

John scrubbed his face roughly again before sagging further down, he was utterly exhausted. Cold. Hungry. Frightened.

Mostly frightened, the gut-twisting apprehension held a vice on his heart with every beat. If Sherlock died he would soon follow, part of him would be gone. He couldn’t lose his best friend, after all they have done. The adventures, the domesticity.

He would admit that while watching Sherlock proudly flaunt his genius and pull theories out of thin air was amazing he much preferred domestic simplicity with him.

Watching crap telly on the couch. Writing his blog while Sherlock would periodically break from his experiment to lovingly tease him on his slow typing and concentration. The lazy Saturdays and calm Sundays when they recuperated and enjoyed each other’s company. Holidays were always a joy. Oddly Sherlock would open up to John on those selective nights when they were alone. Sitting a bit closer on the couch as they watched Christmas specials. Helping bake and cook for Easter. Trying his best to find the perfect gift for John’s Birthday. 

John smiled fondly at the memory of Sherlock singing Christmas carols under his breath after the crowd had left. John had been cleaning up after their guests and had just finished the dishes when he heard a soft humming, low, sweet, beautiful. Ignoring it for the moment to put away the dry dishes the sound was forgotten, until it suddenly became much louder as Sherlock who was now singing loud enough to be heard came up behind John, threw his arms around his waist and sung in his ear with his head resting on his good shoulder.

Forgetting the dishes John listened to Sherlock’s voice, like wet velvet, smooth, warm, lovely.  
A masterpiece that rumbled low in his chest before spilling smoothly from his lips. 

“Silent night, Holy night, all is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child, Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace-“ Sherlock stopped suddenly before loosening his grip on John who turned to face a very red-faced Detective.

“Aww, Sherlock, I didn’t know you sung!” John smiled goofily up at a shy Sherlock who smirked despite the embarrassment on his face.

“Happy Christmas, John.” His feet shifted nervously and he looked up to see a bright smile.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

John was thrown back into the present when he felt a wetness on his cheeks. Warm tears were running tracks down his face, and they wouldn’t stop. No sobbing came, and somehow the simple quiet tears hurt worse than any wracking cries.

He loved Sherlock. And he had never told him, and worse than all of this was the fact that he-  
He may never get to.


	5. I Need You Now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You like? :3

Hello, Babies! I'm back with more stuff! I should be studying, but alas...this is more fun. :3 I hope you like this chapter. Lots of feels. Beware.

 

~0~

 

John woke to a cramping neck and sore back from sleeping in the hard chair. Quickly looking at the clock, which he regretted for his sudden whiplash, he realized that it was about seven in the morning. And no news of Sherlock. His heart dropped to the floor and he shot from his chair and ran to the counter with frightening speed.

"Sherlock Holmes. What is his status?!" He must have looked a sight, eyes wild, hair tousled, baby blue scrubs and a look that could kill. The women behind the counter met his eyes and immediately typed the name in. "Sir, he's still in surgery." She whispered at last.

John paused, he was still being patched together, almost nine hours of surgery. And they still weren't done. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up; he should have realized how long something of that damage takes to care for. And even after they finished the surgery, and if he survived, there would be much more to come. He nodded his thanks and shuffled back to his little chair, plopping himself down with his head in his hands.

The pain of loss, grief and helplessness he was trapped in rushed back to him. How could he never tell Sherlock that he loved him? He was scared of being rejected. Yes. He was a coward. In that case, yes. He was unsure of himself, yes. He hated himself. Yeah. He was hopelessly in love.

 

Yes....

 

 

Damn Sherlock and his beautiful face. Those eyes that could calculate every detail of John's life with cold scrutiny and then gaze at him in loving adoration when he thought John wasn't looking. His strong, over-powering aura when showing off and his quiet, affectionate loving self when they were alone. Those lips set in a thin line in concentration over a corpse and the same lips, plump and smooth, gently parted as he snored softly in his sleep. And just as he was feeling another sobbing session overtake him a warm hand rested on his good shoulder. He looked up to meet the warm grey eyes of an exhausted DI.

" 'Ello Lestrade."

“ ‘Lo John, How’s our favorite Detective holdin’ up?” Lestrade patted him none to gently on the shoulder before plotting himself in the chair next to him.

“He’s still in surgery, hours of surgery and they aren’t done yet.” John stretched forward tiredly and heaved a loud sigh.

“He’s a fighter, he’ll make it. I remember pulling that bastard out of an alley when he was out of his mind on heroin, not his choice of drug but all he had access to. He almost died that night but I took him in and helped him get clean. Wasn’t easy, but he made it. Has a heart of steel. Believe in ‘im, mate.” Lestrade murmured and offered a half-smile. He was nervous, that much was obvious in his impatient foot and trembling hands but he was holding it together for both their sakes, John was grateful.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll try.” John uttered before yawning hugely. Lestrade followed his example shortly.

“Listen, John, you’ve been here all night, go home. Get cleaned up, something to eat and rest, I’ll keep you posted.” John finally noticed that Lestrade was wearing a different outfit and actually looked kempt. He compared it with his disheveled sloppiness and immediately flushed with embarrassment.

“Thanks but I rather stay, I want to be here when he wakes up.” John arranged his scrubs a little neater and vainly smoothed the wrinkles before leaning heavily back, no point. He looked awful and he would remain that way until Sherlock pulled through.

“Then I’ll stay too. Scotland Yard can manage without me for a few more hours.” Lestrade grinned and lent back too. Unable to suppress the relief of not being alone in his grief John released a huge smile and gave a curt nod, any words would lead to tears and right now he needed all the dignity he could muster.

Time passed slowly, drinks were fetched, snacks were eaten, games were played, tears were shared and finally five hours later at noon a tired Doctor shuffled to them. His name Dr. Graves. John was less than amused. They both stood to meet him but he immediately gestured for them to sit, he took his place perched across from them.

“I suspect you are with Holmes?” His voice seemed too deep to match his thin frame, too old.

“Yes, we are. How’s he doing?” John asked. All grogginess dissipated and replaced with anxiety.

Dr. Graves continued. “There was an incredible amount of damage; I have never seen any-thing quite like it. I did everything I could. He died on the table-“

John collapsed on himself and his tears flowed freely with his sobs as his horrors were confirmed. His world collapsed in on him as the truth stabbed his heart and stole the air from his lungs, all gravity was gone, all color, all light. Nothing was real, just the pain.

“Wait! No- you misunderstand, Take it easy, relax!” Dr. Graves spoke quickly, amending his words, “He died on the table but somehow revived himself. He’s alive now, he’s alive.”

It took a few more tries for his words to penetrate John’s misery but when they did he lifted his head and choked back his tears, Lestrade and he spoke as one, “What!?”

“I felt the same. He was dead on the table, for several minutes, and he just came back to life. We were able to stabilize him, plate his leg, and put everything back where it belongs. He lost two feet of intestines but the rest was repairable. The air was drained from his chest cavity and his lung stabilized. More surgeries will definitely be needed as well as physical therapy. I cannot tell whether there has been significant spinal cord damage or if he will ever walk again. I suggest a facility where-“

“No.” John took great pride in his strong, solid voice. “He will not be in a hospital or a facility. I’ll take care of him when he is ready to go home.

“Now, Mr. Wats-“

“Doctor.”

Dr. Graves corrected himself, “Dr. Watson, you of all people should know that spinal cord damage is a severe injury and can cause mental damage as well as paralysis. It would be better-“

“For him to feel safe and comfortable with someone he knows and an environment he is familiar with, I agree.” John finished and thus closed any further discussion.

Dr. Graves sighed and nodded, “Very well. He is in recovery right now; you may see him when he awakes.”

With that the Doctor stood, shook their hands and made his way down the corridor leaving Lestrade and John hopeful, relieved and terrified. This nightmare was just getting started.

 


End file.
